


Driveway

by Abworkma



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24457336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abworkma/pseuds/Abworkma
Summary: Life is hard sometimes. We are given choices and defined by the ones we choose.
Relationships: Ashlyn Harris/Ali Krieger
Comments: 18
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I terribly sorry for going AWOL on you all with Sacrilege. I have many chapters mapped out for it. I’ve just gone through some stuff this past couple of years and it has caused me to be unable to write like I enjoy. I will be working on new stuff as well as Sacrilege, so stay tuned!
> 
> This one is a short 3 chapter first-person piece I’ve had brewing. The POV shifts without warning so I hope it’s not too confusing. I like William Faulkner’s work so it inspired me to try the shifting POV. 
> 
> Also, the main inspiration for this is Dan Layus’s Driveway. It’s a beautiful song, so if you haven’t heard it, here is the link:
> 
> https://youtu.be/fZOV-qwoqMM
> 
> Like I said, this will only be 3 chapters. However, I do have an idea for a follow-up if there is interest.
> 
> Thanks again!

-——————

_It’s 5 o’clock and the rain won’t stop  
And I feel like a prisoner in my own car_

My heartbeat.

Tense and erratic and pounding forcefully in my ears.

It’s all I can hear save for the raindrops beating against the outer shell of my Jeep, echoing their presence in some form or fashion on my soft top. I watch distractedly, my eyes nearly transfixed as each droplet streams in a thick line down the windshield as it makes its way to the ground to fulfill gravity’s only demand. Everything fulfills this demand at some point. 

Everything crashes to the ground.

It’s this final thought which has brought me to my current place of existence, alone and watching the rain fall as I sit in my dark gray Jeep parked in my own driveway and unable to start the engine. Just like the rain, everything falls sometime. Everything falls hard including relationships, even those that were meant to last. 

The raindrops mirror the few stray tears I hadn’t realized I was shedding until one lands on my right wrist which was laid softly in my lap. Swallowing the lump that had uncomfortably taken up residence in the pit of my throat a while ago, I shut my eyes hard. A moment later, I slowly avert my gaze from the raindrops to my left hand, gazing at the cold, silver band as I twist it around my finger with the same hand’s thumb. I’m amazed that it can move at all as my finger has grown to hold it tightly from the years of wear. It now felt as though it were one with my finger. I can distinctly remember how foreign and weighted it had felt so long ago on that spring April day when I first began wearing it. Her smile was so bright as she slipped it upon my finger, trusting me to never remove it.

So far, I hadn’t. 

I’m unsure of how long I have actually been sitting here or how long might pass before I muster the courage to start my Jeep and finally leave this familiar driveway. It shouldn’t be this hard. Life, in general, shouldn’t be this hard on anyone. My eyebrows scrunch as I think this, taking a deep breath to acquiesce to the notion that life had only been getting harder as of late. And I had been spending far too much time out here, alone.

I hear the saying so often from so many people that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. I’m not sure if I’ve ever really believed in God, but if I did, I’d surely have many pointed questions for him— or her.

I’d ask things like:

Why do bad things happen to so many good people if you have the power to conduct miracles?

If you can give life, why do you let so many die prematurely?

When you bring two people together in love, why do you then tear them apart?

Yes. It’s this final question I would ask over and over. I would demand a definitive answer and bang my fist at his door, unrelenting until he finally acknowledges me and my questions. I would tell him that he has a lifetime of explaining to do, for he has certainly thrown more at me in this life than I am able to adequately handle. My only abled response to all of his hurtles has been this exasperated retreat to my Jeep, in the emptiness of my own driveway tracing the raindrops with my fingertips while convincing myself to just leave this time. 

As many times as I have stormed out in a fit of anger to do this very thing lately, I’ve lost the nerve to startup my Jeep just as often and sulked back inside hours later, avoiding her and all that it was beginning to mean. I’ve never been able to bring myself to leave—to put any sort of finality to our fights. I’ve glanced at my ring and each time held steadfast to the promises I made to her, even though my actions have betrayed those in various forms. Even though the promises were becoming empty.

**73 minutes ago**

She’s crying again and not the sort of tears one sheds when they are sad. No. These are hot and angry tears, ones that fall and burn their way into oblivion, her hands flailing about as she moves rapidly in front of me in our kitchen. She makes quick work to haphazardly place each empty amber-colored bottle in a row of eight on the island countertop, reminding me as she does so often of her displeasure. 

“JESUS ASH,” she half yells, half whispers, her dark hair whipping around with her gaze to make eye contact with me. “IT’S NOT EVEN 4 O’CLOCK YET!!”

“Can you keep your voice down,” I interrupt through gritted teeth, not exactly thrilled to be rehashing this once more. I can handle my liquor and I don’t appreciate her tone. “You know they can hear.”

“And you don’t think they can SEE?!” She begins softer but ends just as loudly as before while her right hand points violently towards the bottles.

Her words cut right through to that place where words begin to take shape as weapons and inflict the utmost pain. I cross the short distance, coming to stand right in her face, steeling my gaze and matching her venom. I see her cringe at the alcohol on my breath.

“Ali, If you are insinuating that I am setting a bad example in front of our children then you and I have a problem,” I say as I point between the two of us for emphasis.

“A problem??” She askes me with her eyebrows as high as they are able to arch. “Since when have we had just one problem? We have a whole slew of problems?”

“AND WHOSE FAULT IS THAT??” I yell at her angrily, matching her volume and moving my face even closer to hers while my hands clench at my side, a half empty bottle still in one. I know I shouldn’t have yelled, but sometimes the frustration just bursts out of me and I’m powerless to stop it.

Shaking her head, it is then I see the tears make their change from angry to sad, new ones streaming down her face before she replies in the most defeated voice imaginable, “I can’t feel guilty for that anymore.”

I scoff almost condescendingly as I take another swig of my soothing liquid. I know it’s the alcohol talking at this point and I know I should bite my words, swallow them, never let them keep making things so much worse. I should just walk away and check on my children who’d been sent to play in the backyard when Ali had arrived home with them and found me in my current state. I should do a lot of things, but all I can do is retort. 

“Your conscience is not my responsibility,” I say smugly with such an ill-intentioned smirk followed by an even more ill-intentioned chuckle. 

Large, weighty tears stream unhindered down her face, chestnut colored eyes brokenly holding mine as my own hazel ones begin to water at the sight. She had looked this broken only once before and it had irreverently changed the course of our lives from then on. I could barely stand seeing that look in her dark brown eyes again and I wished I hadn’t said anything at all. Hating myself and the words the moment I’d made the choice to utter them. It had been so long and I was still blaming her for reasons unknown to me anymore. There had been reasons in the beginning, sure, but I’m not certain they even still mattered. Blame had just become a habit as much as the drinking. Blaming her meant it was easier to ignore that I had a problem at all. It had become commonplace to keep her at arm’s length and deflect it all back onto her whether she deserved it or not.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she mutters almost too quietly for me to have caught. But I do, and it sears me. I’d known this was coming for some time; and even though I’d expected it and even wished for it at times, I wasn’t at all prepared for it once it came to be. 

Once the words hit me, I shift my gaze towards the only thing I could think of at that moment. And their tiny eyes are staring right back from the edge of the doorway.

My heart shatters as she continues. 

“I’m too tired to fight anymore,” she sobs out before turning away from me to gaze out the window above the sink, her shaky hand covering her mouth to stifle the sobs that continue their assault.

“We don’t have to,” I softly reply dejectedly, not bothering to break the gaze of my saddened oldest child, the only one who could even remotely comprehend what was actually happening. It is then I know.

Turning back towards her, my gaze catching her slumped form leaning over the sink, I take the three steps needed to place my last bottle on the counter along with the others. Something had to give. I had to stop. And I had to leave.

So I did.

_She’s leaning on the sink, trying not to think  
Wondering how much longer we can fake this thing_

I hear her leave, hear the clanking of the bottle on the countertop and the clapping of her boots’ soles on the hardwood floor the entire way to the front door before hearing it slam. It wasn’t the first time she’s stormed out in this manner, but somehow, I knew it could very well be the last. We’d pushed each other further this time, like so many times before, each one a little further and further. There was bound to be a breaking point— the point of no return. 

Was this the precipice?

I sob softly, the tears landing on the white knuckles that grip the edge of the sink below me. I was unaware of just how tightly I was actually gripping the sink until I glanced down at my ring, the one adorning my left ring finger— the one I always felt drawn to during these moments where everything seemed to engulf me. It almost acted as my anchor, there to console me and tell me that no matter what ever happened between Ashlyn and I, that everything would be ok in the end. We had promised each other that once. However, it was an anchor I could feel being swept away by the tide a little more each day. Especially during the last year or so, we had been fighting more and more, the tension becoming nearly unbearable most days. Fighting had become such an expected and frequent thing that I could almost set my clock by our fights. We’d play the avoidance game in the mornings, going through the motions for our children before going our separate ways for the day, me to the Orlando Pride football facilities and her to the clinic for troubled youth she’d started with our good friend Jamie.

Yet another thing she resented me for— I could still play.

We kept mornings cordial for our family, but after we’d both arrive home in the evenings, stressed from our respective days, fighting was fair game. Though at first, we had tried to keep it minimal and away from our children’s presence. After a while, it became rather impossible for us; and, shamefully, we failed in that facet. We did our best to send the kids to the back yard to play or to the den for a movie when an episode arose; but before too long, they were catching onto things and watching from a distance, hearing every painful word. Today was no different. When I saw Ash’s eyes meet theirs, I had to turn away as a violent sob wracked my body, overwhelming me with shame and disappointment in myself— in us. We were failing them and the promise we had made to give them a love-filled home of laughter and understanding. That hadn’t been our home for quite a while now; and we had stopped trying to make it so.

We couldn’t fake it anymore.

“Mommy…” 

I hear a tiny, anxious voice break through my thoughts as I immediately wipe a shaky hand over my face to regain as much composure as was possible. I look down to see Jackson staring at me with beautiful hazel eyes so much like the ones that looked at me in anger before leaving just minutes ago. He was our oldest, six years of age and way too smart for his own good. It was no surprise to me in that moment that he was perceptive enough to sense the need to confront and console me, his eyes conveying so much more than he was able to put into words. 

“Baby,” I begin as I swallow the lump in my throat that had formed when I noticed the tears filling his eyes to the brim. I run a hand through his dark curly hair before asking, “Can you please be a big boy and take Karson to the den and let her pick out a movie? You know how to work the TV right?”

He nods emphatically before swallowing back the tears he was determined to keep at bay, eager to be the “big boy” I’d asked him to be.

“Is Mama okay?” he quietly asks as he looks towards his feet, the hesitancy he doesn’t normally possess on full display. 

“Yes, Baby,” I lie as I force a smile through my tear stained cheeks. “Mama is just going to the gym for a few. She wants to work out and get stronger.”

“Okay, Mommy,” he accepts my thinly veiled attempt at lightening the mood and restoring some semblance of normalcy to our house. “I’ll see if Karson wants to watch Minions. It’s my favorite because Mama does the voices.”

My heart breaks at his innocent smile and the genuine enthusiasm he has for his mother who has always been his hero. A mother who most likely won’t be back for the time being. It is then I feel the guilt seep back in, the most guilt I had felt in my entire life for my part in all of this. Though I had told Ash that I couldn’t feel guilty anymore, it definitely did not mean that I wouldn’t. It just meant for my own sanity I needed to find a way to let it go. However, as I see Jackson scurry off towards Karson who was still peeking ever so slightly from behind the door frame between the kitchen and our hallway, my guilt mounted. This was all so much larger than me and Ashlyn and our problems. 

There was so much more at stake.

And not knowing what to do or how to even proceed, I turn around and drop to the floor between the sink and the island of our kitchen, my knees coming to rest under my chin as I clutch my hands around my legs. I can feel the onslaught of helpless, violent sobs as I try to just focus on my breathing, closing my eyes and leaning my head back to rest on the cabinet door. 

It never got any easier to watch her leave, quite the opposite in fact. Each time, there was a higher chance that she wouldn’t come back through the door. Each time, I knew she meant it more than the last. And each time, my heart would break all over again.

When did our family become so fragmented?

How could we have allowed ourseleves to reach this point?

It is then I begin to think back to the hardened look in her eyes, watching reluctantly as I fished out the mountain of bottles from the bottom of our trash can. She had looked so completely distant to me, like someone I barely even knew anymore. I had backed her into a corner this time, like a kid whose hand was caught in the proverbial cookie jar. It’s no wonder she had gotten so defensive and angry with me, sparring back with hurtful words. I should have expected as much when I had called her out for being considerably drunk in the middle of the day. She never was very welcoming to the idea of admitting there was any problem at all. It was one thing if it had been only one or two sparse occasions, but this had become nearly a daily thing. Though the problem was continuing to get worse as she drank more and more as of late. I couldn’t help but be more aggressive this time in my approach. Usually, I would just leave it at a passive comment or two and she would either snap back defensively before leaving for her Jeep or shrug it off and retreat to the den. In either instance, I was never able to get through to her. I was scared for what it was becoming and it seemed my concerns could never reach her. She had never felt so far away from me as she did in this moment; and I shudder at the thought of how close to the end we really are. 

I allow myself to reflect back on a time when I had noticed that the drinking was becoming her coping mechanism and a mounting problem for our family. Though she had been drinking heavier than normal for a while at that point, it didn’t dawn on me just how serious it had become. It was the most harrowing moment of our marriage and I circle back to it in moments likes these when she storms out and I am left to blame myself for not catching the warning signs before it had gotten too bad. 

**386 Days Before**

I had come home from a tournament around midnight on a Tuesday night while she had stayed home with the kids for the weekend. The house was noticeably dark and it was a welcomed cloak to cover my presence as I returned. It had been a rough few months before and we had grown a little distant, so the ability to slip in undetected and avoid any tension that would be present was nice. It wasn’t that we were fighting or anything at that time. It was more so that we were avoiding talking altogether for fear of fighting. We just kind of moved through the space around each other without ever allowing ourselves to occupy the same space at once. It had become uncomfortable, to say the least. 

Assuming that everyone was in bed, I make my way towards the den for a midnight movie or just something to shake off the jet lag as I was still running about three hours behind them; so I was not quite ready for bed just then. Plus, the tournament had not ended with the results our team had hoped; so I really just needed something to take my mind off of it all.

But as I round the corner into the den and take the lone step down, my foot comes into contact with something hard and I hear a distinct clank that would become all too familiar in the year to come. 

Flipping on the light, I am met with a most disheartening sight I think I may have ever seen in my entire life. There Ashlyn is, sitting on the floor of our den, legs out in a V shape in front of her with her right hand clutching probably the twelfth bottle my eyes count. Her back is to the wall in front of me, so I am able to see her face clearly. Her short brown hair is disheveled and it seems she hadn’t showered in days. Red, almost hollow eyes shift up towards me as she furrows her brows in a look that could only be described as utter confusion. 

“What are you doing home?” She flatly asks in the lowest voice, barely above a whisper, before immediately breaking eye contact.

“Ash...” I begin softly, at a loss for words as I survey the scene in front of me, empty beer bottles littering the entirety of our den and some dried spots where beer had spilled dot the grey carpet. My heart rate begins to spike with worry as I swallow hard and try to form a coherent thought. 

“It’s Tuesday...” I finally answer after what had seemed like an eternity. “What’s going on? Where are the kids?”

I internally begin to panic at the thought that Ash had clearly been in our den for a day or two just drinking away and our children were left somewhere to fend for themselves. My panic immediately turns to anger upon completion of that thought, my eyes returning to Ashlyn and meeting her own in momentary challenge. 

She better come up with a damn good answer. 

“They’re at your mother’s,” I hear her raspy words bite back as her expression shifts to anger as well. “Do you honestly think I would just forget about them?”

I ignore her question as I breathe a gigantic sigh of relief, the cool air flowing through me and settling me just enough so I could deal with the situation presented in front of me. “Of course not.”

Dismissing my response completely and holding onto her visible anger, she lifts the bottle to her lips and tosses back another drink of her beer before demanding rather rudely, “Will you turn the light off?”

“No, I fucking won’t!” I decide to match her tone and force her to acknowledge her actions. “What the hell is going on, Ash?” I point to all the bottles, still rooted to my spot in the doorway at the base of the step and unsure whether moving would cause any more damage. 

I see her eyes roll in annoyance before she downs the rest of her drink and tosses the bottle to land in the floor with all the others, clanking loudly as it hits another one. She struggles momentarily before she is able to stand to her feet, hands on her right thigh for support. She takes a shaky step towards me before stopping and meeting my gaze, swaggering ever so slightly. I am unsure of how much she has actually drunk by this point, but it has affected her enough, evident in the way she awkwardly moves in front of me. I can feel my breath hitch at the look in her darkened eyes, the whites redened and raccoon circles around her eyelids. 

God only knows how long she has been awake. 

Before she is able to move past me and ignore my question altogether, I immediately place my hand on her chest to stop her. My heart instantly breaks at her reaction— a flinch as she grabs my wrist and quickly lifts it away before my hand is even able to settle there. Like she doesn’t want me to touch her ever again. 

“Ash...” I trail off as I don’t even know what to say to it, her complete disregard for my contact. With the scowl on her face, she looks almost as though I had burned her with my touch. 

“I don’t want to talk, Al,” she states softly as her eyes close and she drops my hand back to my side. 

“Well, I do,” I reply as she moves past me. I grab her arm to turn her back around to face me and instantly smell the alcohol on her breath as she does. Her eyes refuse to meet mine. Instead, they stay focused on the floor between our feet. 

“Well, I’m sure Jay would love to talk to you,” she snaps back, her words seething with complete disgust as she throws it in my face once again. “Maybe you two can go do a lot of talking.”

“That’s not fair,” I respond quietly as I look to my hands wishing for the courage to meet her eyes again. “You know I was vulnerable and very upset when that happened. You know he took advantage of that.”

“And you let him,” she answers almost immediately as my eyes finally come to meet hers. 

I am nearly terrified of the darkness that I see reflected back— the harrowing darkness that had settled over us like a thick cloud for the past however many months. I know there is nothing I can do in that moment to lessen her anger or deny her words; but I recognize that I shouldn’t be alone in the blame. She had done well enough on her part to bring us to this point as well. 

“I know I fucked up,” I reply regretfully while I steel myself for the coming words. “I’m not proud of that. I never wanted it and I never will. But don’t act like you didn’t push me to that point.”

“You’re right, Al,” she says back with an edge of venom as her arm flies up motioning towards the direction of the front door. “And if I could, I’d push you right on out of this house.”

Tears fill my eyes and I can almost feel her anger engulf me in a thick blanket, suffocating and tight. I pull my lips inward, tightening my cheeks and trying my hardest to stave off the sob that wished to echo itself from within me. I know it’s the alcohol fueling her anger in that moment and forming the words that normally—soberly— she’d never say to me. But it’s always the alcohol. 

And it always wins. 

“I’ll just go to Kyle’s for the night,” I finally bring myself to concede, offering to stay with my brother. I’ve drawn my white flag, knowing it would only be a lost battle from this point on.

“No,” she sternly demands. “Go upstairs and go to bed. Your mom is bringing the kids home in about seven hours before she heads to work. You should be here when they come home. They’ve missed you.”

“Ash...” I say softly with a light shake of my head, not really knowing what to do or think as she pushes past me muttering something about pillows and blankets. I assume she is sleeping down here in her fortress of solitude.

I wish with all I have that she’d just say she missed me as well, that we could just take a step towards each other rather than several steps away. But I know better than to expect from her a step anywhere near me. It had been longer than I can even fathom since she had said words even remotely warm and loving, the rift between us only growing wider as we both tried our hardest to skate around it and failed to acknowledge our own defeat. Perhaps that is the competitiveness within us— the professional athletes that refuse to be defeated— refuse to lose. We had both decided at some point in our sinking marriage to just go down with the ship, daring the other to give in first— to jump and swim away without really being prepared for the other’s absence. 

I know I wouldn’t be. 

No matter how much time and fighting had passed since the great chasm had broken right through the middle of our life, it seemed we both just kept trying to weather the storm against all odds.

_We’re both giving more than we both get  
This has been so hard; we don’t want to give up yet_

**Present Day**

I wipe my shaky hand across my brow, beads of sweat forming from the heat of my anger and sadness. I feel so many things as I sit on the floor of our kitchen—so many more than I can even count or verbalize as I sit waiting on a bed of nails for the sounds of her Jeep’s engine roaring to life, a sound that would surely put some sort of nail in our proverbial coffin— a sound that would completely shatter me. So many times she has walked away from me and out the front door to sit in our driveway. So many times our fighting has lead her to the brink of ending it all, of ending us. 

And so many time I have sat wishing and waiting for the sky to open up and the light to shine down on us again and cleanse us of our mistakes— bring us back to each other.

I’ve begun now to anticipate the last time she leaves— the time when she turns the key and doesn’t come back inside after hours of sitting in the driveway pondering what there is for her to return to. Every sngle time that she has walked back inside, I have wondered how many more chances we have left before she doesn’t. 

How many more before we’ve run out?

Instead, as I wait for the sound of the engine firing, I only hear silence, silence and my own heart beating in my ears on what has become repeat. My hands cover my eyes and beg my crying to stop and my headache to fade as I hope with everything in me that this day is not the day. 

This is not the moment it all ends. 

There’s just too much to sort through and figure out. There’s uncomfortable conversations and tiny hearts to break. There’s the realization that the dream is over— that we gave up and let each other and our children down. But most of all, there’s the ominous feeling that our one chance in this life has passed us by never to come around again, leaving us both to exist until forever without what we both know we were lucky enough to find once— pure, unbridled happiness.

I know we can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep rehashing the same old arguments and blame, pointing the finger back and forth waiting for the other to fold. We can’t keep pushing each other to the edge and watching as we teeter for a moment before taking a hard step back. We’re playing a sick, tireless game and we’re both too stubborn to lose—to end it.

Somehow, we hang on and we find a new way to play rather than admitting we’ve lost. We change the rules and ignore the signs. We hold onto it until the very last shred of hope has faded. 

And for me, that hope still remains as it does every single time she walks out of our house. 

So I do the only thing I can. I wait and I hope. 

———-——

In my Jeep, I can only wish for the courage to do what we both need and the strength to see it through. I know that we have drifted so far apart— or we were pushed, or we pushed each other— to the point that living the way we are and continuing the sick cycle carousel that we have been riding for so long is bound to buckle and come to a crashing halt. We are bound to fall apart completely. 

It is then I think of what it would all mean as I see the raindrops trickling down to pool at the base of my windshield, stuck in a stagnant rut. It makes me think of the rut we have been living in and how so often the water has become far too much to tread. 

Why can’t we give up? 

Why can’t I just turn the key?

Why can’t she just tell me to go?

Leaving could save us both. It could save us the heartache and resentment that we both throw at each other back and forth like some twisted game of catch, both of us adding a curve ball to the mix and seeing how many balls the other can juggle at once before losing control and dropping them all. We neither one seem prepared but yet we keep fighting and trying to keep up. We keep trying win the game. 

I sigh with a heaviness, my breath aching in my chest as I wonder how much fight I have left. Each time I leave, I feel it take a small piece of me and I know it takes a larger piece of her. How many more times am I able to walk away from her before it wittles us down to nothing? How much longer can we play this twisted game of catch?

What is there to even win anymore? 

It’s just become all too much on most days that the only thing that makes sense— the only way to win— might be to actually walk away and turn the key this time. To drive as far as I can from her and from the pain we have caused each other time and again.

My shaky hand moves forward towards the steering column, a long and nimble finger outstretching to lightly graze the top of the key I had put in the ignition when I had first climbed into my Jeep. It’s now or never and I shake inconsolably as a sob wracks my body, a thought popping into my head and making its way through the chaos. 

Leaving would save us but at what cost?

Leaving feels all too much like a bigger defeat with so much more collateral damage than I could even stand. We had been together for so long and shared so much— we had built a life and a home with two beautiful, innocent children— two gifts that we had fought so hard to have to grow our family. Leaving would be lighting a match to all of it and watching everything I had lived for go up in flames. 

And it is this revelation that always forces my hand away from the key— away from the only direction I feel I can go.

So I sit. 

I sit and I think about Ali. I think about her tears and her words. I think about the choices she made and the choices I made. I think about all the potholes in our road that had somehow become canyons. I think about all of the ways that she and I have lost each other. Somehow, some way we had lost each other along this broken road of life. 

And I cry. 

I cry because I have no idea what I can say or even do that would make even the tiniest of those canyons start to close— to form a bridge to reach her on the other side. I wish I could reach her.

_You're in there, and I'm out here_  
_Can't bear to leave, can't stand to stay_  
_So I'm just sitting here, parked in the driveway_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the warm response and I hope everyone has a great weekend! 
> 
> Keep leaving comments as they’re very motivational

-——————

_Used to be you and me  
Have a date in the front, Kids sleeping in the back seat_

**4 Years Ago**

“Ash, I can’t believe you!” I say with a smirk and a gleam in my eyes as I glance across the car towards her. She looks so proud of herself as she grips my hand just a little tighter, smiling as she stares ahead out of the windshield as we enter the lot. “Just when I think you can’t get more romantic. A drive-in movie??”

To say that I’m shocked she even remembered is an understatement. I had mentioned to her once a while ago that the one thing I had always wanted to do was to see a drive-in movie— something about the nostalgia of that sort of date. We’d be in our own car watching back-to-back features flicker across a grainy screen like my parents used to when they were younger— when the world was a less scary place. It seemed much more intimate, in my opinion, than going to a traditional theatre and being surrounded by strangers chomping on popcorn and messing with their phones. It would be just the two of us in our own world enjoying the movie and each other. 

Ashlyn had made quick work maneuvering my car into what she had called “the perfect spot for my viewing pleasure.” I had quietly laughed and shook my head at her faux British accent as she finished by calling me “Madam.” She was always saying the most random things and making me laugh as my heart did the tiniest somersaults. It always did when she would take a moment to make me smile by being the biggest goofball and not caring what anyone else thought, only that I was laughing and happy. 

I’m definitely happy and I owe so much of that to her.

“Are you sure he won’t wake up?” I ask in a whisper as I glance over the headrest to the backseat, our son sleeping peacefully in his car seat clutching his beloved penguin, Squishy.

“Baby, he’s out like a light,” Ashlyn answers in a more confident whisper than my own— she’s not trying to be as quiet as me and my paranoia. She smiles as she looks at me and we both hear an audible snore from the backseat. 

He will definitely be asleep for the long haul.

“Why didn’t we let my parents take him for the night?” I ask her as I release her hand to bring mine up to run over the smooth, short hair on the back of her head. I want so much to make her feel as loved as I do. I always try but it seems I can never match the endless devotion and thoughtfulness she gives me everyday. 

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Your parents have plans too,” she answers as she leans into my touch and moves the hand that was holding mine down to my thigh. It’s then I realize that the center console is going to be a problem, keeping us divided and reaching for each other. 

“You’re always so considerate. I love that about you,” I say as I lean over to place a kiss to her temple. I feel her smile against me and her hand grip my thigh tighter for a moment.

“What else do you love?” She playfully asks, wagging her eyebrows up and down. Leave it to her to follow my serious comment with a suggestive one.

I love that too, by the way.

“Many things, My Love,” I reply as I move away and unbuckle my seatbelt. “But currently I don’t love this console. I wanna cuddle you.” 

I pout shamelessly and her smile radiantly reaches her eyes before she deftly unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the door to hop out, quietly shutting it as she goes. My pout then turns to confusion as I watch her go to the back of the car and open the trunk. I wait patiently for her to return; but as she shuts the trunk lid, I only see a blob of pillows and blankets coming back around to the front. She passes her door and I laugh and shake my head in amusement, finally catching on to her plans— plans she clearly thought out well in advance. I watch with rapt attention as she lays two large blankets on the hood of my car and places quite a few pillows at the base of the windshield. Cuddling we shall do; and I excitedly open my door and quietly shut it back once I’ve joined her outside.

“Seriously?” I ask as I come to the front where she is holding out a hand to me so as to help me up onto the hood.

“Ask and ye shall receive,” she says with a smirk and I take her hand, both of us quietly laughing.

“You’re a nut,” I tell her once I’ve begun to settle into our makeshift cot, sliding over so she has enough room beside me as she follows.

Her arms waste no time engulfing me in the warmth and protection that I always find with her— that she always freely gives to me whenever I want it. It never fails to amaze me that I’m the one who gets this everyday of my life— that I get her. Seven years and I’ll still never believe she’s all mine. How I got so lucky, I’ll never be able to verbalize adequately enough to have done her and what she means to me justice. There are just no words that exist that can come close to expressing the comfort and magnitude of love she makes me feel day in and day out. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to return the favor, but I’m not sure I ever will. 

“You love me anyway,” she smiles satisfyingly and pulls me in tight to her as we move into a comfortable spot. Her chin resting next to my left ear as I sink onto her shoulder a little. 

“I definitely do, Honey,” I say seriously as I smile up at her. She moves her head back an inch so we are able to make eye contact and I can see the stars shining so brightly in her eyes reflecting everything I feel for her and so much more. I lean in to steal a kiss that I only mean to be chaste when she deepens it a second after, her tongue running along my top lip as I shiver in response. The feeling never gets old. 

“I love you too, Al,” she breathily returns the sentiment after we break apart moments later, kissing my forehead as her hands rub circles on my back. 

I melt and my heart feels so full.

“This night couldn’t be more perfect,” I tell her as I close my eyes and rest my head against her chest.

“Well, just wait until you see the movie…”

She is interrupted by the screen flickering to life and I hear the faint sounds of the audio echoing from the speakers within the other cars nearby that I had momentarily forgotten existed. That seemed to happen so often when I was with her— the world just faded away and it was just the two of us in our own little bubble. I then realize that we forgot something.

“Ash, we don’t have the car on and tuned to the station,” I say and move slightly away to look at her. “We won’t hear anything.”

“Well, I mean it is your favorite movie, so we’ve seen it enough to know what’s going on,” she shrugs as if it’s no big deal— as if she didn’t do the most romantic thing and find my favorite movie at an obscure drive-in theatre on Valentine’s Day. No wonder she drove me almost two hours away from home and left me guessing as to where we were going the whole time. Suddenly, I don’t really care too much about the audio because I know I will only be focused on her tonight anyway. 

“Pretty Woman!?” I exclaim and look at her in the way a child looks when they’re at the gates of Disney World, staring Mickey right in the face— a place she took me for our first anniversary, by the way.

“Well duh!” She says smoothly and I barely let her respond before my lips find hers in the utmost gratitude. 

“You’re so damn sweet!” I say as I pull away and watch her face scrunch in faux disgust, making me chuckle.

“I am not sweet!” She jokes and turns to the screen as the ad for popcorn stretches across. I laugh at her and run my hands over her torso, snuggling closer to her as she adjusts to let me lie more on top of her right side.

“You are,” I argue and nod my head. “ You’re sweet and kind and thoughtful…. And you love me…”

“Well yeah, I always will, Al,” she says as if it is the truest thing in the world. And I know it is.

I know she will love me forever.

**Present Day**

Memories like that one always run through my mind on a loop during these moments after our fights when she storms off after we’ve both said a million things we regret. And even though they all sting just the same, I know she regrets them as much as I do. We’ve just both reached the point where we say more things that we regret than not and we can’t figure out how to stop. 

We were so damn happy once. It feels to me like a once in a generation kind of love, finding your best friend and being lucky enough to fall in-love with them and have those feelings reciprocated. There were never two people who fit together as well as us and I would put us up against any legendary couple in all of history real or fiction; Antony and Cleopatra, King Arthur and Guinevere, Robin Hood and Maid Marian, Clark Gabel and Scarlet O’Hara— the list goes one— but somehow, I know that in our prime we would beat them all. Our love would outshine any of them; and I cry everyday for a love that feels lost to me.

I cry everyday just wanting to rediscover that love with her.

I slowly stand to my feet wiping harshly and desperately at my tears, my hands running over the tracks they have made across my flushed cheeks. I’m reluctant to move, the sadness weighing me down as though I’ve worn ankle weights; but I know I need to. I need to be strong and I need to get up off my kitchen’s cold tile floor and check on my little sweet ones—the innocent ones that have no idea of the impending heartbreak they will most likely face someday soon, if not tonight. I’ve still yet to hear the grumbling of her Jeep fire up to signal she has decided to leave. 

As far as I know, she’s still in our driveway. 

And I’m still waiting on that bed of nails with my heartbeat increasing the more my anxiety mounts— the more time passes and I hear nothing. Waiting is always hard. The uncertainty it brings and the feeling that the longer it takes the worse it will feel. Sometimes I wish the bandaid would just be ripped off, the inevitable pain and misery beginning so as to get it over with sooner rather than prolonging it all. It will never be comfortable and the pain will never be lessened; but the limbo we are living in currently is heightening the sense of foreboding I feel for my marriage ending.

And it’s almost too much to bear. 

I move towards our half bath under the stairs and across from the den where Jackson and Karson have been sent for the time being to shield them in some way from the fallout of our most recent fight. I know I must look weak and distraught— a sight the two of them have seen far too often— and I need to compose myself so I am able to check on them and be what they need. I have to swallow the pain and put on a brave face— it’s what they deserve. I think momentarily about how Ashlyn always leaves me to face the kids alone after she storms out, leaving them confused and worried. I always have to be the one to assure them that everything is fine— that their perfect world won’t crumble and everything is as it should be. 

I always have to lie. 

I flip on the light and shut the door quietly, turning around to face my reflection in the large mirror. I instantly cringe. My eyes are red and puffy, my cheeks tear stained with stray locks from my messy bun sticking to them. My shoulders are slumped and I look utterly defeated. I raise a shaky hand to pull the hair tie from my bun and free my long hair from its restraint. Once it falls in tendrils over my shoulders, I begin smoothing it out with my fingers, twisting the hair around and back into a much more polished bun. I need to look like the mom who has everything figured out— who is confident and collected. And I can’t do that if my hair and my face seem like they have been through a wind storm. Children are smart— especially ours— and they know when you aren’t your best based on what they see. They pick up on subtleties and hone in on things you may not have even noticed yourself. So, I always do my best to appear as the best version of Mommy that I can after one of our fights. 

I do it for them. 

After adjusting my bun to its place on my head, I automatically reach down to the drawer with my right hand while turning the water on with my left, pulling the facial scrub from within the open drawer. I apply a small amount to my fingertips and do my best to hold the tears at bay. Though I am doing my best to compose myself, I am anything but composed. I am a wreck and my heart is pounding forcefully as my breaths come ragged. I’m unsure of how I am even able to stand as my legs are shaky and feel as though they’re weighted down. 

In the bathroom, I am unable to hear Ashlyn’s Jeep startup to know whether or not she has left me this time— whether the moment I’m dreading has happened or not. I look in the mirror and see a stray tear stream down my face at the unknown and impending moment. I breathe deeply and exhale through my mouth as I pray it hasn’t come. But I know that in this moment, there is only one thing I can and should do— be the mom my children deserve. So I force my tears back and bring the facial cleanser to my cheeks and begin scrubbing away the familiar stains. I scrub harder than I normally do, scrubbing away the tears and all the emotions they’ve brought with them. Somehow, I think if I scrub hard enough that maybe the pain will go too— and the sadness. I scrub for a few minutes longer as I bring water to my face to add to the cleanser, feeling the refreshing chill that it brings as I rinse and scrub some more. Leaning over, I adjust my face under the steady stream and close my eyes as the water runs over me. I can do this. 

I have to.

Once I towel my face dry, I once again reach into the drawer to pull out a small makeup kit, needing the mascara and foundation. I don’t normally wear much makeup at home, but after a fight like this one had been, I know I need to wear some in order to appear strong for my children. It acts as a mask to cover the sadness and shield them from it in some small way— or at least that’s what I hope it does. I apply a modest amount of foundation to my cheeks and around my eyes, covering the flush that crying has gifted me. I wonder if my makeup is the same as the drinking is for Ash, though obviously to a lesser detrimental degree. I know her drinking is much more harmful to not only herself but those around her; and this is the reason I confront her every time. I do not wish to see her drink herself to death. I know my heart couldn’t handle that. But I can only guess that she uses alcohol to mask her pain and sadness in the same way that my makeup does for me— that she drinks to allow herself to appear less broken. I guess I know it’s one of the reasons she drinks along with not having to cope with the reality of our situation, or more pointedly hers. 

I just wish she would let me back in so that we could face it all together. We could be each other’s coping mechanisms— each other’s masks. Sadly though, she has worked so hard to distance herself from me and I do blame myself for a substantial amount. I’ve made terrible choices, sure, but some of what she blames me for I only made to protect my family— and that includes her most of all. 

Once I am confident that my mascara is perfectly applied, I step back and look at my appearance. Long gone are the tear stains and redness, the messy bun and slouched posture. Replacing them are a freshly slicked back bun, upright shoulders, and smooth, even skin with dark eyelashes. “Look good, feel good” I always say. I take a deep breath and nod my approval before quickly putting my things back into the drawer and replacing the towel back onto the rod. I shut the light off as I exit the half bathroom and cross the hallway, I pause momentarily to listen for any sounds of a Jeep rumbling in our driveway. I hear none as I think she is either still debating on leaving or she already has. 

I shut my eyes and hope for the former. 

My hand reaches softly for the doorknob to the den, opening the door quietly so as to not wake them if they’ve fallen asleep. This is usually the case when they settle in for an afternoon movie, the quiet calm allowing them time for a nap before dinner. I’m hoping that I find them asleep as I take the step down into the den, allowing my eyes to settle to the darker atmosphere as the light from the television flickers across the walls. I round the edge of our large sectional and find my two tiniest loves fast asleep, Jackson leaning sideways against the corner and Karson stretched out across from him, their tiny feet tangling together. I hold in the tears that wish to break through the flimsy dam I’ve built, my heart breaking at the thought that our problems will hurt them eventually in some way— or have already. They are so peaceful in that moment, lying there in seemingly uncomfortable positions fast asleep as though the world around doesn’t even exist— as though their innocence has yet to be tainted by our marital problems. I sigh sadly as I reach behind Jackson and gently pull the blanket over them both, softly tucking them in before placing a kiss to each of their foreheads. 

“I love you both so much and I’m so sorry,” I whisper as quietly as I can before the aforementioned tears spill from my eyelids and run over my cheeks, ruining my foundation as my guilt gets the best of me.

I quickly turn and make my way through the den back towards the door, closing it softly as I leave. I can’t afford to break down in front of them again. I know that once I am in the hallway, I can let it out again as they will sleep for at least an hour. I can cry and let out all of my emotions without having to hide it from anyone. 

So that’s what I do.

A sob wracks my body as I put a hand to the wall in our hallway for support, my fingers brushing a frame on the wall I hadn’t been paying attention to— a picture of a much happier time and place. My eyes snap towards the photo and I run my fingertips across the image— the scene of a happy family in a park so long ago.

Ashlyn is sitting on a picnic blanket with a smiling baby boy between her legs suspended by her hands as I stand behind her looking down upon them, my hands on her shoulder. We are both dressed nicely, me in a floral sundress and her in khakis and a light blue blazer. Jackson was wearing the cutest sailor onesie that my parents had bought for him and the sun was illuminating us in an otherworldly glow. This photograph was my favorite from his six-month photo session that we had commissioned. We looked so happy, so complete. It felt like a lifetime ago for a family that had gone through much more than we deserved, things and life having other plans for us. I look away sadly as another sob makes its way from within me. 

It was a lifetime I’d give anything to return to. 

_This Driveway was an open road  
Didn’t think at the start this is where it was gonna go_

I can feel myself beginning to sober up, the throbbing in my head increasing as my heart rate slows a bit, coming down from the effects of the alcohol. If the crying and arguing hadn’t done it by now, the hour or so spent sitting in my Jeep thinking about everything had given me enough time to begin to feel much more lucid and less floaty. The numbness of my face from the alcohol's effects has substantially worn off and I am able to actually feel it now when I softly bang the side of my head against the window of my driver door. It’s almost as though I’m in a trance, my tears have dried but my eyes remain focused ahead at nothing really as I contemplate my choices. 

On one hand, I can stay like I do every time. I can take a deep breath, compose myself, and march back inside while I avoid her once more and keep our cracked marriage from completely crumbling to pieces. Or I can do what I’ve never been able to do— what I have tried to do many times but lost the nerve. 

I can leave. 

I can turn the key and drive away, finally giving relief to the insurmountable weight that has settled on our marriage like the darkest of storm clouds. Leaving would end so many things— the pain and anguish and misery and sadness that we both just keep throwing at each other. It would end the tireless game of blame and animosity that we keep ourselves entrenched within, waiting for the other to break. It would end the pain that I know I have been inflicting upon her for the past couple of years— hard years that have seen us diverge from one another, me to the bottle and her to someone else. 

And though the thought of Ali and someone else makes my entire being ache with complete and utter agony, I can only remind myself of my part in it and the role I played. I had done my best to set her on that course whether I wanted to admit it or not. I can remember the day she told me of her infidelity, and though it hadn’t gone as far as it could have, it still burned me enough to the point I can still feel the flames. They still burn the tiniest bit in the depths of me. 

Leaving would put an end to all of the cyclical patterns of me bringing up everything and throwing it in her face as often as we fought. It would free her from that as much as freeing me from reliving it all over and over. It would save us both from destroying the other with our hateful words and poor choices. And even though this would be the biggest reason to leave— to spare us both the constant pain and reminders of everything that had led us here— I’m also aware of what leaving would cost us. Our family. Our dream. Everything we had worked so hard to build would be gone with the turn of my key.

Leaving would ultimately end us in a way I’m sure nothing could repair; and it’s always this fear that keeps me from turning the key. The fear of irreparably changing the course of our lives and possibly coming out on the other side worse off is what roots me to my driveway. 

I think of my children, my reason for smiling most days and the last shred of happiness I still had. I never wanted my children to experience what I had as a child, a broken home with one parent more absent than the other. I had always told myself that I would never put my kids through that sort of childhood, being shuffled back and forth between two homes and splitting holidays and birthdays. It had always felt to me as a child that I was being pulled apart in two directions, a constant battle between my parents for my time and affections. But as I grew older, I began to realize that the battle wasn’t for my sake, it was a war of power between the two of them and I was the leverage. I had always promised that I would never do that to Jackson and Karson. I promised them from the moment their tiny hands clutched my larger fingers and their blue eyes fluttered open that I would always find a way to keep their family together and happy. I had failed half that promise; so I clung to the other half and never let myself leave.

Leaving would break my promise completely and make me out to be a liar to the ones who matter most, even if they didn’t know it. 

My eyes continue to stare ahead as the war rages in my mind, tugging and pulling my thoughts from one hypothetical outcome to the next. The rain continues its assault on my surroundings, beating a rhythm that nearly matches the noise inside my head. I think about all of the shit we’ve gone through, the sad times and the hard times that have occurred, every last one of them bringing me to wrestle with myself in this driveway. 

Our driveway. In the house we found together and turned into a home. 

My fingers frantically twist my wedding band around my finger as I remember not just the bad moments, but all of the good ones as well— all of the moments where her bright smile was all I could see as it reflected the love and hope she felt back onto me. So many good moments. I’m not sure of a day where she smiled as brightly as she did when I surprised her with our house, driving her here and parking in this very driveway for a moment before she realized there was a “sold” sign sticking out of the front lawn. 

We had only been married for about eight months; but they had been the best months of my life. I knew that I only had even better months to come.

**8 Years Ago**

“You know, Google Maps exist for a reason,” Ali says with a smirk as I drive down an unfamiliar street, large, beautiful homes situated on either side as my eyes avert left and right in search of the address.

“Where’s the fun in that?” I reply in my usual sarcasm as she chuckles softly. 

Sure, I had been here before as I had done a walkthrough previously with our realtor before placing an offer. However, it would take me many trips through this maze of a cul-de-sac before I was able to efficiently find the house in question without any wrong turns or turn-arounds. All of the streets in the neighborhood looked the same and none of them went in a straight line. I sigh once more as I round the corner at the end of “Barbary Drive” and glance up at the street sign. Finally. Our new street. 

“Emerson Circle”

Ali’s still not quite sure what is happening, thinking we are just driving past a few homes listed and checking out the exterior as we do a simple drive-by. Little does she know that I had actually purchased the one I had shown her online via a virtual tour. Her eyes had lit up immediately and I could tell she really loved the layout and design choices. It was a more modern house with a white stucco exterior and minimalistic features. The kitchen was large and inviting with its dark gray marble countertops, expansive island housing the vegetable sink and grill top, and beautiful breakfast nook situated to the side. Four bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms made her exclaim to me that it was exactly what we wanted for private living space, the large family room and dining room adding even more to the appeal as well as a bonus den/studio space. When we had made our list of ideal features and amenities, this house had checked off all the boxes and then some. We had both decided that we wanted to see it and most likely place an offer, so I had suggested driving by and seeing it from the outside first. But she had no idea that the offer I had placed had been accepted. 

I was taking her to our home where we would grow our family and make many happy memories together.

I drive past a few more houses, each of them looking equally as quaint, before we spot the familiar house on our left hand side, the realty sign still sticking up from the yard where the grass had recently been mowed and a freshly painted mailbox installed. I chance a glance in her direction in time to see her eyes light up and a gasp leave her lips. 

“Ash, it’s gorgeous!” She gets out as she leans forward to take it all in while I pull the car into the driveway.

“It is a beautiful house. The virtual tour didn’t really do it justice huh,” I state as I place my hand lovingly on her leg to rub gently.

“Not at all. I didn’t think it could get more beautiful,” she replies as she turns to me and flashes the most genuine and bright smile she saves for truly special moments. 

I know she will be thrilled when she finds out the keys are in my pocket. 

“You can’t get more beautiful,” I say to her as I lean in and brush my lips against hers to steal a kiss, my heart fluttering with excitement for my gift to her.

“You always say that,” Ali says with a shake of her head at my pleased expression.

“And I mean it every time,” I add before she looks away to the yard, seemingly inspecting the front yard.

“Oh,” she says flatly as her expression falls dramatically and she lifts a finger to point in the direction of the sign. “Ash, it’s sold.”

“Yeah,” I say hesitantly before reaching into my pocket to fish out the set of keys she didn’t know I had. “I heard it sold to a gorgeous couple— a sexy brunette and her fashionable wife. A couple of professional athletes, if I recall correctly.”

Her gaze immediately snaps towards me, eyes as big as saucers as she hears the distinct jingling of keys held out in front of her before she gasps in shock and brings her hand up to immediately cover her slack jaw.

“What did you do?!” She nearly squeals as she grabs the keys from my hand and holds them higher to see if they are actually real. 

“I may or may not have bought my wonderful new wife a house…”

I’m unable to finish as she has thrown herself across the console to generously pepper my face with kisses, her hands running marathons across my upper body as she repeatedly whispers how much she loves me in every way. 

“God, I love you so much Ashlyn Michelle,” she finishes as she comes down from her cloud of elation, deeply kissing me at a much slower and deliberate pace. 

“As much as this house?” I question as we break apart, my sideways smile challenging her as I run my hands over her back. 

“I mean,” she answers teasingly as she shrugs her shoulders. “So far I’ve only seen the driveway. But somehow I think this may be the best part.”

“And why is that?” I ask her with a bit of confusion at her meaning. 

“Because,” she begins with a smile that nearly melts my insides. “This driveway will be the beginning of the path that leads to us really starting our life together. Our family. The possibilities for us are endless.”

“You’re right, Babe,” I agree with her as I steal one more kiss. “We have only just begun.”

“You know what else I’m excited for?” She asks me with a gleam in her eye as she sits in my lap, arms around my neck.

“What’s that?” I ask in anticipation for whatever she has to say. I always hang on her every word.

“You carrying me inside like all those cheesy movies you make fun of me for watching,” she ends with the damn cutest giggle that I live to hear, proud of herself for the suggestion and eagerly awaiting my response.

“Hallmark is terrible,” I reply in faux disgust, rolling my eyes as she playfully shoves my shoulder.

“Well, I guess I won’t make you carry me bridal style across the threshold,” her sarcasm drips from her words as her eyes hold mine in a sweet challenge. “But how about a piggy back ride?”

I’m powerless to deny her anything she wants as her beautiful chestnut eyes stare deeply at me as though I am the one to have hung the moon. I could never thank the universe or the fates enough for the life I’ve been given and the woman I was lucky enough to find. I’ll never have done enough in my lifetime to deserve her; but I will spend eternity making sure I try.

I pop the door knob and open the car door, swinging my legs out as I pull her up with me. She takes a few steps before I turn around and allow her access to jump onto my back, the weight feeling comfortable and welcomed. I smile and a laugh escapes me as I picture her smiling triumphantly from behind my head. Her arms snake around my neck and her hands softly grip my chest. I’m sure she can feel the serene rhythm of my heartbeat as I kick the door shut and make my way towards our new front door. We both notice a script capital letter “A” hanging on the stucco next to the doorway, surely a gift from the realty agency for being first time homeowners. It’s a sight that sends a tingle to the pit of my stomach for the excitement at the promise of making a house full of memories with the woman who has made my dreams a reality. I could never do enough to thank her for that.

I hear a tiny sniffle behind my ear and feel her pull me a bit tighter as my right hand moves from holding her thigh to inserting a key into the doorknob. I know she is feeling the emotions that I do as I open the door and turn my face towards her, whispering over my left shoulder as her nose nuzzles my cheek and she places kisses just below my jawline.

“Welcome home, Sweetheart.”

_We’re both giving more than we both get  
This has been so hard, we don’t want to give up yet_

**Present Day**

I throw my head back against my headrest as an onslaught of tears burn their way down my cheeks, my hands coming up to cover my face as a sob echos in my chest. I cry harder than I normally do as I think back on the first time I brought her here to our home. It seems so long ago, a distant memory as though it had occurred in someone else’s life. And maybe it did. I’m not even sure those two people who walked through that front door, clutching each other with wide smiles of sheer bliss even exist anymore. Surely we are different people now who have been shaped and molded, allowing the bad times and misfortunes to impact us like meteors— the effects of which can still be felt and seen. What had been such a wonderful time— us moving here and starting our life together, an open road of endless possibilities ahead of us— felt to me now so foreign and almost as though it had been a dream— that it had been an illusion. I’m unsure if I even still remember it all correctly or if my mind has filled in the blanks. Our current state of distress— our marriage seemingly sending out an ‘S.O.S’ that is going unreceived— is working double time to overshadow all that has been so completely good in our lives. And I try so hard to remember the good and cling to it because I know I could never have it again once I leave.

I wonder if she knows this too or if she even cares at all. So many times I have left, walked out the door with the intention to drive away, and she has never once followed me to tell me not to go— that it would affect her if I left— that she wanted me to stay and figure out a way to get past everything and move on as a unit. And maybe that’s why I have yet to actually leave on one of these occasions. Maybe I keep giving her the chance to prove to me that she still wants me around, a notion of which I haven’t been sure of for a while now, ever since her betrayal. So many things have happened to us over the past couple of years that I wonder if she even still wants me here. I know I haven’t handled things in a healthy way. I know my drinking has escalated to a very detrimental point, but it’s all I can do to wake up in the morning and feel as though I have failed her— that I have pushed her so far away from me that she would feel indifferent if I never come back. I sit out here in my driveway waiting for her to show me that she still cares in some way. Whether her emotions turn out to be negative or positive is beside the point. The opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference. And I keep hoping that one day she will show me that she still feels something— anything— for me and what we have been. 

But maybe I don’t have the right to wish these things. Maybe I have done enough to push her to this point that it is selfish of me to expect anything less than indifference. So many nights I had come home to dinners left out for me to take what I wanted— dinners that had been intended for me to enjoy with her. Those nights I had usually stayed out late to avoid coming home— a place that once felt like heaven itself had started to feel claustrophobic. It all seemed to happen in a blur, going from being in-love and so happy to becoming strangers. The clincher had come and hit our lives like a wrecking ball and we neither one had the instructions to navigate it correctly.

I know I didn’t handle the end of my soccer career in the best way, or a good way at all for that matter. I know I should have reached out for her— her hand had always been extended to help me up— instead of pushing her away and turning to my addictions. I was just so scared. My identity had been taken from me and all of my hard work had been thrown away. And it didn’t help that she played a huge part in all of it as well, even though now it doesn’t seem like something she could have helped. She did what she had thought was best and I can’t even fathom what I would have done in her situation— the choice I would have made. But instead of recognizing that and understanding. I was so hateful and angry that I isolated myself in my depression and blamed her for it all. I stiffarmed her and set us on a course of self destruction. 

I made her the enemy and I hate it.

And in reflecting on what it all meant, I have shifted the resentment from her onto myself. Once the blame had worn off and I was able to understand why she had done what she did, I was left to face the fact that I had treated her so terribly. And that is something I can’t stand to live with. I had said so many terrible things to her and treated her with such disdain that I had pushed her so far away from me and she landed in bed with someone else. The pain of knowing that it was me, that it was my doing that caused her betrayal is something I can’t get past and I can’t forgive myself for it. I know that she never would have done what she did had I not made her feel like she was drowning— like she had been sinking into the whirlpool and she could no longer stay above water. She had seen someone else handing her a life raft in the middle of the abyss and she had taken it for a moment. She had given into the temptation to float and catch her breath for a moment.

And it was all my fault. I hated her betrayal and I hated myself for leading her to it.

As I think over this I have nothing to do but cry and wish with all I have that I could go back to that night, to the very beginning of this downward spiral. I would do so many things differently. I would make better choices and take the right steps to correct the course we had been set on. I would trust her and the choices she made, choices I unjustly resented for so long— resentment which has left a lasting effect on everything around us. I would never turn to my drinking for a way out. I would turn to her for a way in. I would let her guide me and be strong for us both. I wouldn’t allow us to break in such a way that feels like it can’t be repaired. 

I would hold her tight and never let go.

_You’re in there. And I’m out here_  
_Can’t bare to leave, can’t stand to stay_  
_So I’m just sitting here parked in the driveway_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aright everyone, here’s the finale to this little piece. My plans will be to begin updating Sacrilege next. Hopefully you all enjoy this ending. I hope I have been able to convey some depth and insight into the characters as the process the events and emotions. I have enjoyed writing this and look forward to more. Thanks again!
> 
> And go check out the song that was the source material:
> 
> Driveway by Dan Layus

_The way things went, it was a long slow death  
Put ourselves in the corner time and time again_

**27 Months Ago**

I’m frozen in my spot and staring through a thick plate glass window, nearly paralyzed as I look in at her from the hallway. It had been a long, harrowing night of waiting for any sign that she would be ok— that I wouldn’t lose my wife. They had wheeled her in from surgery about twenty minutes ago and now she’s peacefully laying in her hospital bed, motionless; and if the machines beside her weren’t blinking to signal a pulse rate and blood pressure, one would think she might be dead. Her skin is uncharacteristically pale and her cheeks are sunken making her look almost like a zombie with her pale blue chapped lips and matted hair. I've never seen her look so fragile and small. She’s always had such a larger than life presence on and off the field, her personality strong and cocksure, typical of goalkeepers. Seeing her in this bed and so frail is something I never thought I would see; and her fragility breaks my heart. There’s a cold chill in the air and I almost don’t even feel it as I listen to the faint beeping of the machines and I hang on each one begging for them to never stop— for her to be okay. 

The past few hours were particularly terrifying as I was sitting with her at one point before things abruptly went downhill. Her hazel eyes were not nearly as bright as they normally are as she stared up at me from below, my hand gently stroking her hair and my eyes trying so hard to convey everything I was feeling. She was a bit feverish, so she wasn’t talking much; but she was finally awake and that was more than I could have asked for. She had smiled at me right before the machines started blaring to signal her blood pressure had fallen, her eyes then rolling into the back of her head before closing. I’m sure all the color drained from my face as the nurses burst through the door and began to tend to her, ushering me out of the room and giving me assurances and instructions in words that felt so foreign and distant to me. I don’t even remember leaving the room or how long it was before the blaring noises stopped, but I’m sure I didn’t breathe the entire time. It felt as though my life was entirely contingent upon hers; and I wasn’t sure I could ever be okay if she didn't make it through.

The days before had seen me waiting anxiously for hours upon hours. I waited as she was in surgery for almost 10 hours when we first arrived and then I waited some more as she was unconscious for the 12 hours afterwards. She then required additional surgeries and skin grafts, so I waited for even more long hours during those procedures as well. I then waited more and more for news from the doctors on how everything went. Waiting had been my entire existence in this hospital over the past few days, and I was ready for it to all be over. 

I was told that the surgeries had been challenging but had gone as relatively well as they could have hoped. They claimed they wouldn’t know for sure how successful everything had been until they were able to closely monitor her for a few days after, allowing time for the skin grafts to take and the swelling to decrease slightly. There were many risks involved as her injuries were very extensive— her knee cap completely shattered and all the surrounding ligaments torn, her tibia and fibula both broken in multiple places and there had been significant nerve and arterial damage as the bones had pushed their way through the skin upon impact with various fragments lodging into muscle tissue.

It had been the most gruesome injury I had ever witnessed on the pitch and in the world of sports in general. I had seen it happen so clearly as a Portland player boldly challenged Ashlyn for an aerial ball before landing with their full weight on her right leg, bending her knee backwards and snapping her lower leg in two. I knew I would never in my life forget the sound of her leg crunching beneath the player as they both fell to the ground. It was all I could do to not lose the contents of my stomach at the sight. The entire stadium had fallen silent and all I could hear was my heartbeat. When she had landed, she had barely even moved before she shrieked out her pain in an utterly deafening wail. I dropped directly next to her with tears in my eyes as I could very well see how awful it was and I fully understood the magnitude of it all. The ordeal had been my worst fear realized as a wife and teammate— seeing her severely hurt and being completely unable to do anything about it was one situation I had never been prepared for. It had taken nearly 40 minutes for the paramedics to stabilize her and shuttle her off the field in an ambulance and to the nearest hospital in Portland, Oregon. And I’m still not even sure if the game finished or what the results had been. It just didn’t matter after that.

All that mattered was her. 

It also didn’t help now to think back on that moment and know that I had let the ball be sent in for the Portland forward to have an opportunity. My lack of better decision making had ultimately led to the injury. I know I should have been in better positioning during the counterattack and because I wasn’t, my wife had to go up for a gutsy save. The result has completely wrecked our life and I’m sure I will always feel the guilt haunting me like a thief in the night.

As I await the news of Ashlyn’s latest condition, I’m so intensely focused on watching the rise and fall of her chest beneath the hospital blanket that I don’t even notice the doctor approaching me from my left side. In the hallway, I am startled and I jump slightly at the gentle hand to my shoulder before the doctor apologizes profusely and I turn with wide eyes to face him directly. 

“I’m so sorry for frightening you, Mrs. Krieger-Harris,” the middle aged man says as he looks at me through his horn-rimmed glasses. 

“It’s no bother, Doctor,” I reply as I shake my head and let my impatience be known. “How is she doing? What even happened? She was fine and looking at me one minute and then the next…” I trail off as my chest feels uncomfortably tight just thinking about Ashlyn nearly dying. 

“I’m sorry for everything and I can’t imagine how hard this is for you,” he supplies with a comforting tone before explaining the situation.

“Thank you.” I nod my gratitude for his efforts and condolences before continuing, “I can’t even believe it’s all happening. So what is her status now?”

“Currently, she is stable but critical. Stable in that she is not getting worse at the moment. But critical because she could at some point. Ashlyn’s blood pressure dropped as her fever spiked at the infection and it could very well happen again.”

“Infection?” I question, my mind frantically trying to understand what he could mean by this. “I don't understand. I know she was feverish but I was told that would be normal as her body began healing.”

“Yes. It seems that due to the arterial damage in her leg, there was a blood clot that formed just above her knee…” He pauses as I gasp and tears fill my eyes. I know all about how dangerous blood clots can be and the threat they present to a body. “Blood flow has unfortunately been restricted to the lower leg causing severe tissue damage which has led to a serious infection. Your wife had become septic and her body went into shock. ”

I shake my head, tears falling down my cheeks as I clutch my chest above my heart before I am able to find the words— any words— to ask what it all means. The kind doctor seems to sense my confusion and continues explaining in such a way that I can understand more clearly, his kindness and compassion on clear display. 

“What this means, Mrs. Krieger-Harris, is that I’m not sure we can do anything to prevent the loss of her lower leg. We can keep monitoring her and administering IV fluids and antibiotics for the infection and hope that it slows the tissue from dying. But the chances of that lower leg healing at all is slim to none. She has lost about 60% of the muscle tissue from the knee down; and that number is potentially going to climb. Should we give it some more time, there may be a small chance that she doesn’t lose the rest, but the risk of waiting is that she could become septic again like before and go into cardiac arrest. Currently she is very critical,” he finishes and I can distinctly hear the weight of the situation in his soft voice. 

“Oh my God!” I exclaim as my hand covers my mouth, the weight of his words and their meaning hitting me so bluntly as to shake me to my very core. My shallow breath catches in my throat as a sob is choked out before I shake my head and back into the wall across from him. I’m not even sure what to ask first. 

_There’s nothing more you can do?_

_Are you asking me to cut off her leg?_

_Will my wife die if I don’t give permission?_

“I can give you some time to think this over,” he offers with an empathetic hand on each of my shoulders as his eyes convey to me all I need to know. “But you need to know that time is not something we can really afford to give much of. “

“Will she die?” I breath out shaky words, asking the only question on my mind at the moment as a lump forms at the base of my throat, nearly choking me as I try desperately hard to breathe. 

“Essentially, we would remove the leg and administer IV fluids. The infection will run its course in 48 hours or so and she will have a much better prognosis. Or,” he pauses as I look pleadingly into his eyes for some sliver of hope at an alternate solution that doesn’t involve my wife losing her leg. “We give it some time and her body most likely fights the leg as the muscle tissue continues to die at a slower rate with the IV fluids fighting the infection that will inevitably come back.”

“And the infection will cause septic shock and cardiac arrest again?” I ask solemnly, not ready to give up quite yet.

“The process of muscle tissue dying is very painful; and cases such as these tend to not improve in such a way that makes the risks worth it in the end,” he answers in all seriousness as I take a steadying breath to prepare me for the decisions I know I will have to make once this conversation is over. “Losing a leg is a much smaller price to pay in the grand scheme of things.”

I turn my head to glance once more at Ashlyn through her room’s window— peacefully sleeping on the surface, but a deeper look reveals the beads of sweat on her forehead and haggard breathing, her struggle to live and fight the infection on full display. I know the decision should be hers— she should be in charge of her own body— but I’m currently the only one who is capable of making it. I can either do what I know to be saving her life or I can respect what I know she would choose— to fight for her leg and fight through another injury. Her career had not come easy for her, navigating many tough injuries early in her collegiate career before fighting her way back and making the senior national team. Ashlyn is nothing if not a fighter and I know that she would want to keep fighting, thinking that if she could come back from other injuries, she could come back from this. But I know it is much different this time. It is life-threatening and there is so much more at stake than just a professional soccer career. Losing her is not an option and I’m not about to be a single parent and live the rest of my life without her. Ashlyn by my side with one leg is exponentially better than not by my side at all; and I don't even allow myself to entertain the ominous possibility before I turn to meet the doctor’s soft green eyes once more. 

“Alright,” I say, a little firmer than I expected, nodding my head in affirmation and swallowing the lump to prepare myself for the eventual fallout I know to be coming. “You have my permission to do it. You can take her leg. Just please, please make sure my wife comes back to me, safely.”

“I can assure you, Mrs. Krieger-Harris, that I am a thousand times more confident going with this route than the alternative. I will get the necessary paperwork to you for the operation and should you have any questions at all, I can be reached at this number,” he finishes warmly before handing me a card, patting my shoulder, and turning away from me to retreat down the hall as I sigh and sink to the floor in a pool of fear and sorrow.

It is roughly seventeen hours later that I am awoken by the fluttering of fingertips against the side of my face. I tentatively open my eyes to discover that I have fallen asleep sitting in a chair with my head resting next to her left hip. I blink a few times to allow the fog to clear from my mind as I don’t quite register exactly what is going on or who has awoken me. My shaky hand, asleep from the weight of my head spending countless minutes resting upon it, slowly reaches my eyes to rub the sleep and stray tears from within before pinching the bridge of my nose. My eyes close in response and a deep yawn escapes me before the reality sets in. 

Ashlyn had been the one to wake me. 

“Al?” 

My thoughts are confirmed as I hear a dry, gritty voice softly whisper my name. I immediately jerk to attention and sit up straight, grabbing her hand and leaning as close as I am able to. 

“Oh Honey, I’m so glad to hear your voice!” I say as tears well up beneath my eyelids and I softly run my fingertips along the side of her face, brushing her hair back. I do not wish to cry in front of her or give her any reason to worry right now. She will have a very hard time soon enough and I just wish to spend the next few moments with her suspended from that harsh reality. “Can I get you anything?”

Her hoarse voice can only squeak out a dry, breathy sound as she tries to answer, nodding instead and pointing to her mouth to signal she is thirsty. 

I immediately fly from my seat and across the room towards her water pitcher, wasting no time in filling a cup and bringing it to her dry, cracked lips. She takes a few hesitant swallows as her shaky hand tries its hardest to meet the cup to hold it for herself. 

“It’s ok, Baby, I’ve got it,” I say to her in an attempt to relax her enough to rest her arm back down. “You just drink as much as you can.”

She spends a few moments drinking most of what I had put in the cup as I watch the muscles in her neck flex and constrict as she struggles to swallow. It appears as if any ounce of exertion takes all of her effort and it nearly causes me to cry. She’s always so strong and capable; so seeing her so vulnerable and weak is utterly heartbreaking to me. 

After I notice she is leaning away signaling she is done, I set the cup on her nightstand and reach into my purse for some chapstick, her dry lips needing their fair share of attention as well. I remove the lid and as I am about to put it to her lips, I see her brows furrowing in what appears to be confusion as she leans up as best she can to glance toward the foot of the bed. 

“Al, what…” A cough interrupts her words as her arms push her further up the bed and my heart sinks as I know what she is about to recognize. I can visibly see her lucidity coming back to her as she struggles to understand what she is feeling. 

“Ash…” I say softly as I try my best to interject and explain before she has a chance to say anymore. 

“What’s wrong with my leg?” She asks apprehensively as she begins to pull on the blanket, pulling it up towards her and exposing only one foot. “Why can’t I feel my foot? What the fuck?”

“Ash, I…”

“Tell me you didn’t!” She exclaims, her fiery eyes snapping up to meet mine as she finishes pulling the blanket up to reveal what is blatantly missing. “Tell me this isn’t real!”

Tears fall unrelenting down my face as I can see just how angry and scared she is— how furious she is at me. Her eyes have darkened and her jaw steeled as she bores holes right through me with her maniacal gaze. 

“Baby, I almost lost you…”

“How could you let them?” She blurts out in more of an exclamation than a question, tears filling angry hazel eyes.

“Ash, your leg…”

She interrupts the beginning of my explanation, giving me no room to reason with her in any sort of rational manner. As she sits up as straight as she can, the adrenaline of the moment making up for her weakened state, she levels her eyes at me and I can see just how bad it is and will be for us for a long time. 

“Yes! MY fucking leg, Ali!” She yells in my face and I can feel the hot, angry intensity of her words as they sting me one by one.

“I don’t deserve for you to talk to me that way,” I shakily respond, defending myself from her attacking words. 

“No, you deserve a whole lot worse,” she snaps back as her voice gets a bit louder. “How could you fucking do this to me!”

“I had no choice!” I yell back to match her fury, done letting her interrupt me again. “I was given an impossible decision and I chose the one that would save your life!”

“Well it wasn’t your decision to make!” She states hatefully as she lays back down, tears beginning to fall from her eyes as she looks away from me to stare at the wall before a sob excales her. “God!”

“You’re right,” I offer empathetically as I try to touch her arm, the rejection as she flings it away from me stinging me deeply. “It wasn’t my decision to make; but I had to think of the bigger picture. I had to make a hard decision and think of Jackson and Karson. And yeah I had to be a little selfish and think of myself too; because Ash, I can’t do this life without you. WE can’t do this without you!”

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she says quietly as she continues to stare away from me and ignoring my words. “You should go. I don’t want you here. In fact...”

She brings her broken gaze back around to meet mine in an almost challenge, tears in both of our eyes as she frantically reaches for the nurse’s call button on the side of her bed. Moments later a rather bouncy nurse makes her way into the room as I can only step aside and give her access to check Ashlyn’s vitals.

“Good! You’re awake!” The nurse offers cheerfully as she jots down numbers and notes, her pen flying across the paper. “How do you feel? Can I get you anything?”

“Yes, actually,” Ashlyn says immediately as I hold my breath for what she might possibly say, knowing that it can’t be good given the moment and the look on her face. “Can you make my wife leave, please. I do not wish to have visitors.”

“Ashlyn!” I say incredulously as my face scrunches in disbelief before I step towards her as the nurse looks back and forth between us. 

“Oh, um,” the poor nurse caught in the middle stammers out, unsure of what to do or say. “If that’s what you want…”

“You can’t be serious!” I exclaim as I shake my head, anger rushing over me in waves. “I’m her wife!” I say to the nurse, flabbergasted at the turn of events and what is about to happen. 

“Mrs. Krieger-Harris, I am obligated to ask you to leave,” she hesitantly and sympathetically says to me, her eyes conveying how sorry she is and how she wishes she didn’t have to. “I’m terribly sorry, I can walk you out and get some coffee for you.”

“I don’t need coffee!” I shrug off her hand that has come to lay on my shoulder. “Ashlyn, don’t do this.”

“You did this, Al, not me,” she says brokenly as she watches the nurse next to me pull me away and motion for the door. 

The last thing I see as the nurse ushers me out of the room are two darkly anguished eyes staring through me, breaking any composure I have left and conveying a sense of betrayal that neither of us had ever seen coming; and I know without a sliver of a doubt that nothing will ever be the same again between us. All I can do is look back into those eyes, the heartbreak and sorrow bubbling at the surface with hot tears streaming down my face. It was a life-changing moment that had happened simultaneously in a rush and in slow motion, severing our once unwavering bond and fragmenting us from one another for years to come. 

————————————————————————

**Present Day**

It’s true that my guilt has been something that I have carried with me for so long. I’ve been guilty of many things over the years, but never has the guilt followed me quite like this guilt— guilt that I still see housed in her eyes every time she looks at me. In her mind I had stripped her of her identity and taken away her autonomy. For the longest time afterwards I had felt as though I had made a rushed decision and given up on her. I questioned so often whether she could have fully recovered, reading many articles and cases online of people doing just that when their bodies had rejected a limb. But what I always returned to in that line of thinking was my fear. I had watched her hit bottom, nearly dying when her blood pressure dropped and sepsis set in. It had shaken me to my core and I could feel the fear of losing her becoming all too real. That moment had been something I would never forget even the smallest detail of— watching her eyes roll back, her complexion fading to gray, the loud wailing of the machines, her breathing stop suddenly, the hospital staff frantically rushing around trying to aid her, being shoved from the room as I heard “Code Blue!” shouted from a distant voice, waiting hours for any indication that I wasn’t a widow. It had all been too close of a call for me. It had added up to too large of a draw of luck and I never again wanted to test that luck and see if it would run out at some point. I had chosen the safe path, the path that would give me the best chance at salvaging my family. And although I know she blamed me then and still does for the most part today, I can’t say I regret my decision at all. The alternative could have been so much worse and so much more regretful if I had let her die knowing I could have done something— anything— to prevent it. I would gladly take Ashlyn hating me for the rest of my life than Ashlyn not being here at all. 

I think back on the vowels we made so long ago to each other in front of everyone we knew, how we had promised each other and swore to remain by the other’s side no matter what. It was a gorgeous day in April and we had been so ridiculously happy, so unabashedly and overwhelmingly in-love. But I also can’t help but wonder if we had been as equally naïve as well. We had promised each other the umpromisable— things we had no way of knowing. How can anyone stand up and promise the unforeseen? How can you say that you will remain constant through uncharted waters when you have no idea what lies ahead— the icebergs and whirlpools hiding in the darkness and unable to be seen until they are unavoidable? No one is able to completely understand or grasp just how bad things can get until they are living in that moment. And in those moments I guess you find out just how strong your will is and how faithful you are to the promises you make. I can’t speak for everyone but I know in my heart and soul that when I promised to protect her and be by her side through the worst, I never imagined just how bad the worst could truly be. But I also never imagined just how hard I would fight and try to hold steadfast to my promises and vowels. I promised her forever, and I have always intended to give her that even in our darkest of moments. Even when she had me removed from her hospital room and refused to see me through the remainder of her three week stay— even when she spent the many months following the injury in various ways pushing me as far away from her as she could and intentionally hurting me— even in my most regretful lapse of judgment when I turned to someone else for the briefest of moments and nearly destroyed any shred of us that remained. Through it all, I have always seen her as my forever. 

She has always been my endgame. 

And this is exactly why my heart pounds and my breath stops as I freeze in my spot when I hear the rumbling of her Jeep starting up in the driveway, a sound I had anxiously awaited so many times before but never actually believed I would hear— the sound of her leaving me. 

The sound of my forever ending. 

It’s a sound that reverberates through every wall of the house in such a way that has become so familiar to me over the years. I close my eyes tightly as they become filled with the largest of tears, choking back a sob that has lodged itself in my throat and sucking in a sharp breath that nearly penetrates right through me. In years past, the rumbling has brought with it so many blissful feelings— the feeling of my love arriving home from wherever she had gone and on whatever business trip that had kept her from me. I would hear that sound as it pulled into our driveway and I would spring from my spot in the house and make my way to the door to meet her as she walked through. Many times I would throw my arms around her, clutching tightly as she would carry me into the house with her, more often than not, carrying me straight to bed. With my eyes closed, I allow myself the briefest of moments to believe that this will take place once more— that she will burst through the door and sweep me off my feet one last time. But the pain that comes with the realization that this will not be the case is all-encompassing and I clutch desperately at my stomach as a wave of nausea hits and I know that this is it. It’s real this time. 

She is really leaving me now. 

———————————————————————-

_It's hard to say if it's too late  
But you'd give up or I drove away_

I pull my shaky hand away from the ignition where I had finally done it— I had finally turned the key and started my Jeep after what had felt so much like an eternity in this driveway. I had finally taken a step to end what had become so much pain and animosity for us. My heartbeat is shallow and loud as I stare at the key, my Jeep vibrating beneath me. My breath has halted in my throat as I feel dizzy and shaky and I can only stare unblinkingly and wonder what I’ve done— what I’m doing. Though I know why I need to go, it doesn’t mean I understand or have the conviction— quite the opposite, in fact. I’m sure of myself but confused at the same time. I feel strong and determined but at the same time I feel weak and hesitant. I feel relief but at the same time overwhelming sadness. The truth is that I don’t know what I feel or how to even process it. Starting my Jeep had been a truly gutwrenchingly hard step. But I know now that backing out of the driveway will be impossibly harder. 

Before, I had never quite understood what people meant when they said “sometimes love isn’t enough.” Having been a classic romantic all my life and finding the most perfect woman to love and shower with my affections, I had just never understood how love couldn’t be enough. Wasn’t love supposed to be the strongest force in the world? Wasn’t love supposed to conquer all? How could you not be able to work things out with someone if there was still love involved in it somewhere? But as I sit here staring at the key I finally turned, I’m reminded that I’ve understood the saying for quite a while now, ever since I made the choice to withdraw from her and make her the enemy. Love sometimes just isn’t enough. Sometimes, you love someone and even if you know that love runs as deep as the lowest plunging canyon, it can still be overshadowed by everything else around it. Things like circumstance and pride can act as a villain in anyone’s love story. It certainly has in mine. My love for Ali has never been in question. It’s as strong as it was the day I realized it and made every effort to show her just how much I truly did love her. The love has always been there even though I’ve worked so hard and been so angry that she may have begun to believe otherwise. 

The problem is that I’ve just gone down a dark path and the further I go the murkier the waters get— the less sure my footing gets. It’s to the point where I’ve gone on for so long and strayed so far from her on this path that when I look back, I can’t even see the way I’ve come. I can’t even find the stepping stones to get back. My only option has been to keep going for fear of losing my footing and tumbling into oblivion. I know that I have broken things beyond repair for us. It’s evident in the way she looks at me now and the way she says my name. I used to feel her thick and warm adoration spill from her lips at just the utterance of “Ash”; but now my name has been paired with a certain shortness to it. Saying my name now is hurried and forced from her lips; and It’s as though she can’t say it fast enough for fear of it leaving a bad taste in her mouth. It’s evident in the way she almost avoids my presence altogether rather than seeking it out. Most of our interactions involve the children we share, as they should— we’ve tried so hard to keep it afloat if only just for them— but the quieter times we used to make just for ourselves have been filled with emptiness and silence when we’re not fighting. 

And I know. I know I have no one to blame but myself. Rather than turning to her and leaning on her for strength and support like I should have after my injury, I made her the enemy— the antagonist. I pushed her away and blamed her for things she should never have been blamed for. I made sure she felt the venom and the hatred seethe from every word I said and every one of my actions. I punished her for it all and I don’t even know where to step to turn back now on the path I’ve forged for myself— the path that has left her far behind. There were so many things I should have done differently and so many things I shouldn’t have said. But that’s the worst part about life I suppose— you can’t go back and change anything you’ve done. Nothing is ever the same and hindsight will always be 20/20, the perfect vision staring at you like an unwanted guest from somewhere in every room you find yourself, reminding you that things could have been so much better if you’d done something— anything— differently. I know I could have done so many things differently. I could have been so much better to her instead of blaming her and hurting her. I pushed her so far away from me that no matter how much I love her, at this point I know it’s not enough anymore. 

**26 Months Ago**

She is staring at me from the side of the room as I adjust what’s left of my leg, my thigh, into the prosthetic lower leg and mechanical knee before standing up. It takes every last shred of restraint and dignity that I have left to not hurl the cold, foreign object towards Ali where she sits watching me try it on for the first time. It feels so heavy and uncomfortable; and I avoid making eye contact with anyone because I can almost feel them all laughing at me and pointing. To say that I’m embarrassed would be the understatement of the century. I had gone from being a tall, strong, and agile athlete who could walk into a room proudly to now being a slumped, hobbling, peg-legged sideshow attraction. And all because she didn’t believe in me. She didn’t believe that I could overcome the injury. She made a rash decision in the heat of the moment and let her emotions dictate it all. If there weren’t so many eyes looking at us, I would let her know exactly what I think about that decision and how it has truly affected everything between us. 

“Alright, Ashlyn,” a smiley, youthful voice says from my right as I grip the bars on each side of me. “How does that feel?”

“How’s it supposed to feel?” I bite back without any effort to make eye contact. “It feels like a nightmare.”

“Does it hurt?” She asks more specifically. “Does it feel like it’s rubbing awkwardly somewhere?”

“Awkward?” I ask incredulously as I keep my voice low. “Of course it’s awkward.”

“It’s going to feel a bit awkward for a few days, but does it hurt?”

“No,” I say as I finally level my gaze with hers. “It doesn’t hurt. There’s no leg there to hurt anymore.”

I know it’s not the kind physical therapist’s fault that I’m here and in such a sour mood, but I can’t help but be snippy and a little angry towards her— towards everyone really. It seems almost everyone I’ve encountered since the injury and amputation, all the professionals and therapists, have been so desensitized to someone going through what I am that they forget that some of us actually have a hard time with it— some of us have been devastated. To all of them, someone losing a leg— and their identity and their sense of purpose— and having to re-learn how to walk is simply just another day at the office and not an earthquaking experience that has completely wrecked their life. 

“Well,” she begins sweetly as she puts a gentle hand on my bicep, smiling at me in an almost flirtatious manner as she runs her fingertips across my skin in tiny circles. “You let me know if anything at all starts to hurt or rub the wrong way and we can get it adjusted for you. As you know, it has been molded to fit your leg, but we have pads and foam that we can insert to cushion the point of contact and make it a little more comfortable.”

She’s young and petite, mid-twenties with bleach blonde hair and tanned skinned— probably one of those types of girls who seem to flirt with everyone in some small way because they know they’re cute and so does everyone else. I normally shrug off advances such as these; but as I glance towards Ali and see a hint of jealousy in her chocolate eyes, I’m emboldened to hurt her just a little in this moment— to bring her closer to my level.

“Thank you,” I say before offering a small smile back and deciding to appease her. “Your name is Veronica right?”

“Yeah,” she says warmly through a thousand watt smile as her hand lingers a bit on my arm. 

“Well how about,” I begin as my arm raises to connect with her outreached one, my hand lightly gripping her forearm as I lean in slightly towards her so we breathe the same air. “You, Veronica, show me how to get around in this contraption?” 

I say her name loud enough for Ali to hear the flirtiness in my voice as I return the affections the therapist had been giving me for the better part of fifteen minutes.  
It’s subtle and almost imperceptible, but once I glance towards Ali and I see her jaw clinch a moment and her expression shift from jealousy to sadness, I know it worked. Having been together for so long and learned what we have about each other, she knows exactly what I’m doing and why. To say that I feel the tiniest triumph is putting it mildly. Ever since I had awoken in that hospital bed to my own living nightmare to find that my wife— the one supposed to be on my side— had allowed it to happen, I had wanted nothing more than for her to feel even the smallest ounce of pain that I feel so overwhelmingly.

“I would love to do that,” Veronica softly answers with a gleam in her smiling eyes that prompts me to return an even cheesier smile to keep up my charade.

It takes only a moment after that before Ali has crossed the room to stand next to us both, her left hand going to my other shoulder, rings on display, and letting the woman know exactly what her place in all of this is. 

“I think I should be involved so that I will be able to help my wife, should I need to, when we are at home,” Ali says pointedly as her eyes burn holes right through the therapist’s face, challenging her to back off. 

“Right,” Veronica answers hesitantly, suddenly aware of the growing tension before she moves away slightly. “Well, its quite simple to assist really…”

“Actually, Al, Veronica and I are fine and you can go,” I interrupt rather sternly before anyone has a chance to say anything else, my eyes set and speaking more to my wife than my words do.

“Ash!” Ali protests gently as her hand falls and her expression hardens in confusion. 

“Yeah, I don’t want you here,” I add with an affirmative nod. “I can manage on my own. At least let me make this decision.”

“Wow,” Ali responds as a tear forms in her eye. “Fine, I’ll be back in an hour.”

“That’s not necessary,” I respond before thinking clearly about what I’m doing and turning back to the therapist. “Veronica can give me a ride home since it’s the end of the day, can’t you Babe?” My arm goes around the stunned therapist’s waist for effect.

“Fuck you,” Ali says after a moment of glancing between us in shock before immediately turning and walking away, ardently wiping her eyes as she goes and letting the door slam on her way out.

“I don’t really need a ride home,” I say as I face Veronica once again and back away from her. “I just wanted her to leave me alone.”

“I know that it’s none of my business…”

“You’re right, it’s not,” I interrupt coldly before refocusing and pointing toward my half leg. “So let’s get on with this.”

“No problem,” she replies with a fallen expression and properly begins our session. 

It is many hours later when I stumble home in the dark, hobbling through our front door and dropping my keys on the floor as they miss the key hooks that adorn the wall in our foyer. I take a deep breath and notice two things; the first being that the house is quiet and the second being that Ali has waited up for me. I notice her shadowy figure sitting under a blanket in one of the chaise lounges we keep in the living room to the left of our foyer and across from our kitchen. We don’t spend too much time in the living room, only really using it when we have more formal company. It has mostly been decorated as a mere sitting room, our television and entertainment devices being housed exclusively in our den. So, I instantly know she has been anxiously or angrily— perhaps both— waiting for me when I see her actually sitting in the usually vacant room. Taking a sip of her coffee, I hear her exhale a long breath that I’m sure she has been holding for a long while before she addresses me.

“Where have you been?” She calmly but disappointedly asks in a loud whisper as she flips on the lamp beside her, the sudden light filling the atmosphere and nearly blinding me. 

I reel away slightly and squint at the harsh assault on my eyes, my head already pounding from the effects of the alcohol I drank hours before. I stumble a bit to my left and wobble as I grip the wall for assistance and blink away the pain. 

“Are you drunk?” Ali asks a bit louder before she moves from her spot to stand in front of me, the anger and shock present in her darkened eyes. 

It’s not often that I drink and she knows I must have had something because, being a lightweight, I can never hold my liquor or mask the fact I’ve had any. My stumbling could be equated to the new leg and the fact I’m getting used to it. However, my inability to balance myself and my squinty eyes and furrowed expression are a dead giveaway. 

“I had a few drinks but I’m fine,” I seethe in disdain as I focus my gaze on her, my eyes bloodshot and the strong smell on my breath. She leans her head back a bit before I add, “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“How can you say that?” She says almost sympathetically before bringing a gentle hand to rest on my cheek. “You’ve been gone for hours and I had no idea where you were. Of course I’ve been worried! I went back to get you and you had already left the clinic.”

My eyes momentarily close at her touch as the overwhelming anger I have for her and what she’s done to me is diluted a tiny bit by the love I still feel for her and the effect her touch has always had on me. It also doesn’t help that the alcohol is clouding my once guarded demeanor and I nearly cave into her, letting her consume me for the moment before I shift to my right leg and I notice how shaky it feels— how unstable my new normal is. My eyes waste no time in snapping to attention and I back away like an apprehensive animal, her hand falling back to her side as she clenches her jaw at my retreat. 

“Baby, I know you’re so angry,” her determined voice breaks through the moment as she does her best to reason with me and reach me. “You’re so angry with everything and with me mostly. I get that. I knew exactly what I was going to get when I made the choice; but you have to overcome this anger. You can’t let it become you.”

“What do you even know of anger?” I bite back at her, my words sharp and pointed. “I can tell you that I’m angry, yes; but I feel so many other things for you right now and none of them are good. So, please… just leave me alone before I say and do anything I regret.”

“Fine, Ash,” Ali answers after a long moment of silence had settled around us in which the tears had welled up in her beautiful dark eyes. “Hate me all you want. Hate me all that you are capable of. But don’t think for a second I regret what I did to keep you safe. I never will as long as I live. You can flirt with your therapist to try to hurt me all you want; but I will never regret doing what I had to do to keep you here. You have a whole life ahead of you and I’m so thankful for that.”

“Well, pat yourself on the back then, Al,” I say, words laced with sarcasm and disdain. “Congratulations! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go rest in the pieces you have left me in so that I can wake up early and see my children before they go to daycare.” 

I turn away from her, noticing her glassy eyes dripping with stray tears, and I shakily make my way through the living room and towards the hallway before turning back and adding in thick, bitter words, “And you’re right, Al, I do hate you.”

I notice her eyes filling up with tears as quickly as her face constricts in the utmost pain before she visibly swallows her anguish and turns away from my gaze, seemingly unable to stand it any longer. Never in either of our minds had we ever expected to hear those words from one another; but I had said them without so much as a hesitation and now the words were real. They existed and they floated around us like a swirling snow storm, always there to in blanket us in a thick haze at any moment. The words brought with them the darkest and coldest of winters that would never see spring for the months and years to come, the iciness and frigid air settling over our marriage and forcing us apart a little more each day as we fought so gallantly to keep warm on our own. I can’t say for certain if I regretted the words or not, but it had been the only thing I could say that could honestly explain my feelings for her at that moment. And I had always been honest with her. 

**Present Day**

I’m not at all proud of my actions after waking up in that cold, sterile hospital room, talking to her the way I did and forcing her to leave. I took my anger and frustration out on the one person who was only thinking of my well-being; and because I did, I plunged our marriage and our friendship into the deepest and darkest abyss and left them both there to die. From that point forward, each step I took and each word I said only served to drive the wedge further between us and hurt her in every possible way. It’s hard for me to fully explain why I chose that path. Yes, I did blame her initially; but over time, I grew to understand why she made that call— why she chose to let go of my leg rather than me. I would have done the same exact thing if I had been in her position and I wouldn’t have hesitated. The truth is that I was angry with myself over the injury and so completely distraught that it was impossible for me to see anything with clear eyes and a clear mind. My judgement had been so poor and I shifted all of the blame onto her because it was so easy to do. It was so much easier than looking in the mirror and seeing the hollow reflection. In tough situations we always want someone or something to fixate on and blame so as to shift our focus away from our own pain and distract ourselves. She was an easy target and regretfully became my punching bag because I knew she would never leave— my distraction would never leave and I would never have to face the music. All of my feelings and emotions had been directed at her and she bore the brunt of everything as it crashed down around me. I was so damned unfair to her and for that I will always feel so ashamed of myself. 

It wasn’t until many months later that the drinking became as heavy and as much a part of my daily routine as breathing was. I made every attempt to snap at her for the smallest of things— I would trip in the new leg, I would tirelessly struggle to do things like walking upstairs, or I would catch her watching games and studying film for our team— well her team now. All of these things would bring out the most intense anger from within me and I would direct it all towards her, making sure she knew just how much pain and frustration I had to live with because of her decision. With each argument, came even more angry words and accusations. At one point, I had even gone so far as to ridiculously say that she’d had my leg amputated so that she could be the star of the team and finally step out of my big fat shadow. My face stung a bit after she brought her hand firmly across it in that moment, making a point to let me know just how much my words were affecting her and how off-base I was. She had never once hit me before, but I can look back on it now and say that she was very well justified. 

I was so hateful to her for so long. It’s no wonder that she came home one rainy afternoon about eighteen months ago looking pale as a ghost and visibly sick. Without me having to utter a single word, she profusely began to apologize, tears immediately spilling from her face as she crouched on the floor in front of me explaining how she let a man— one of the team's trainers— take advantage of her on the massage table after her workout. I had sat motionless in my usual spot on the sofa in our darkened den, a familiar bottle in my hand as I listened and felt my heart shatter at what I could only blame myself for. We’d had a rather long and cold argument that morning about my drinking which had led me to say something about how I drink to forget that I’m married to her— hateful yet again. She had cried as she stormed out of our house and left for her morning training session, leaving the kids to play in the backyard rather than dropping them off at daycare like she usually would. It was the moment I knew I had broken her and pushed her as far away from me as I possibly could, pushing her squarely into the arms of someone else. It had meant nothing, she told me, and hadn’t even lasted long enough to get past second base— whatever that meant anymore—before she pushed him away and left his office; but she had felt so horrible and dirty, she said, that she stood in the shower in the locker room for about an hour before she was even able to leave the facility. As she told me what had happened my only response was to take a drink of my beer and ask if she enjoyed it before standing up and leaving her to cry on the floor of our den. I had felt so inconsolable and numb in that moment; and it was then I realized how much at fault I truly was and how much damage my blame and anger had done to our marriage. I had felt so ashamed of myself for pushing us to this point and ruining her the way that I had and all I could do was run away from that as well and retreat to my newly formed habit of drinking until I forgot.

_Can't bear to leave, can't stand to stay  
So I'm just sitting here, parked in the driveway_

As I sit here in my Jeep, the rumbling of the engine beneath me, I sigh and tears continue to fall in waves down my face. I have no idea where to go or if I even want to live anymore now that I know it’s going to be without her. The irony is that our marriage began to suffer at the loss of my leg; but now the loss of my leg seems like nothing at all compared to the loss of Ali. I had spent the better part of two years allowing the pain and self-sorrow to eat away at me while I took everything out on her. I blamed her so much and laid all of the guilt on her and in the end, I lost something even greater than what I blamed her for taking. Now all I have left is complete and utter emptiness; and knowing my children deserve so much better than that, I’m not sure what I can even offer them at this point. It will be a hard, impossible road once I leave this driveway; but I’m not sure where else I can go or what else I can do. 

My foot begins to press in on the brake as my hand comes up to clutch at the gear shift on my steering column. I’m shaky and sick to my stomach as I go further in my retreat than I have ever been able to before— further away from her. I momentarily close my eyes to gather enough courage to throw my Jeep in reverse before I open them and see the rain let up. It is then I notice the valiant sun break through the dark clouds that have almost entirely dissipated, the warmth and light bathing my surroundings in an otherworldly glow. And if I wasn’t so completely heartbroken at that moment and about to alter the rest of my life in a terrible way, I might have allowed myself to enjoy the effects of the bright sun ending a dark, cloudy day. But just as my hand hovers between the ignition and the gear shift, my eyes catch onto something moving to my left near our front door. The sight freezes me instantaneously as my breath catches in my throat, my heart skipping a beat as the tiniest crumb of hope settles in the pit of my stomach and my resolve completely breaks. 

Ali.

She stands there on our stoop, dark chestnut eyes full of tears and longing as she stares right into mine, the moment catching me completely off-guard and changing everything in an instant. She shakes her head ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, as I barely even register the movement before my fingers freeze between the gear shift and then move to my ignition. And without another thought, I kill the Jeep’s engine as she rushes to my driver side, opening the door and pulling me from my vehicle and firmly into her arms. 

We grip each other tightly for what seems like both an eternity and only a fleeting moment before I pull away from her and drop to my knees onto the damp concrete, my arms wrapping around her waist as I bury my face in her belly. A soft mumble escapes my lips as I whisper the words I’ve needed to say for so very long. 

“I’m so sorry, Al,” I sob quietly before repeating myself. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

And as the sun settles over the expanse of our neighborhood, she pulls me deeper into her and for the first time in what has felt like forever, we breathe each other in and allow ourselves to take the first step at mending. 

_This house was a home a long time ago  
We don't want to miss it, but I think we both know_


End file.
